The following pages are taken from Chapter 7 of A Love Forbidden
The next morning, Leah overslept. That was bad enough. To make her morning worse, the Muni trolley wires fell down on Market Street, creating gridlock in the downtown maze.
There was no way she could be on time for her meeting. By the time she reached the offices of POCI/USA, the coordinators of the fifteen San Francisco Cells had already gathered and were milling around the coffee pot. Nathaniel Roundtree had chosen the name given to local affiliates to remind members of the plight of the prisoners on whose behalf they lobbied.
"Sorry I'm late," Leah apologized. "You wouldn't believe the mess out there." No need to mention that she had slept through her alarm clock, or that she had gotten Teddy and Monica to school late for the first time this year. "Just, give me a couple of minutes to pull myself together." She nudged the group into the conference room.
In her private office, she took five deep breaths, rolled her head in a slow counterclockwise motion, then repeated the exercise in the opposite direction. Within minutes, as promised, she was ready. Ahead of her was an all-day training session on the latest directives from world headquarters and the never-ending challenge of recruiting new Cell members, affectionately referred to as "cellmates."
There was no time to think about Jay and his visit to San Francisco, until she was alone in her bedroom again late that night.
Jay's letter lay open on the nightstand, where she had left it. She reread the sentence: "Montenegro may not be as clean and innocent as he claims, but he may not be as bad as POCI claims either." Either Jay was lying and thought she was too stupid to know it, or he was hopelessly naive in believing his family friend was a misunderstood, benevolent dictator. POCI had a bulging file on known human rights violations in Santo Sangre, a catalog of horrors perpetrated against anyone--men, women, even children -- who caused temblors in the solid rock of the national status quo. Leah did not know what influences had affected Jay's thinking and political judgment in the intervening years.
"I would love to interrogate him now," she thought, imagining a one-on-one confrontation in which she asked the tough questions and demanded straight answers. "Interrogate? That's pretty strong. Well, so what?" There was a lot she needed to know about what was going on in Santo Sangre. As Montenegro's personal representative, Jay would have to fill in the blanks. "If he doesn't have convincing answers, I'll send him packing in one big hurry," she promised. Her facial muscles tensed with anger and disappointment at the thought that Jay de Cordova could have joined the enemy's camp.
Still, when Leah recalled the luminous clarity of Jay's gaze, the integrity--sometimes bullheaded and maddening--of that inner spirit, she doubted he could knowingly have entangled himself in Montenegro's web. She looked forward to the nineteenth. At least part of her, the professional, was eager for his arrival. Perhaps she could rescue him from his involvement with the old de Cordova family patron.
The woman in Leah was not at all certain it was a good idea for Jay to come. Her life had a nice, gentle rhythm to it. Between her children and her work, she had plenty to occupy and challenge every waking moment. When she needed an occasional break from parenting and "saving the world," as Teddy called her work, and wanted to spend time with a male companion, there were a handful of good friends who were always glad to take her to dinner and a night at the theater. Jay was the only man she knew, now that Walt was dead, who had the ability to shake the foundations of her neatly ordered world. He had done it once before, with disastrous results narrowly averted. There was always a chance he could do it again, unless she were strong. "Or unless he's sold out to Montenegro," Leah concluded. "Then, there's no way we can find a common ground of friendship again."
Friendship. The word did not seem adequate to encompass what she and Jay had experienced. Leah's search for a better word sped her thoughts racing back in time. "We started out as co-workers," she reflected. "Then, we became friends." Leah recalled how she had struggled to keep their relationship on that safe plateau. * * * *
The months of what Santo Sangrians called autumn (the temperature rarely dipped below eighty) that year of 1973 had found Leah immersed in the life of the villagers of Santa Teresita. She shopped in the open marketplace at the center of town and visited people's homes, where she felt the sincerity of their "Bienvenidos."
What Leah enjoyed most was working alongside and getting to know the curate of Santa Teresita Parish. She had been taking a shortcut through the church yard one afternoon, when she heard Father Javier call her name. For a moment, she could not locate the sound.
"Up here!"
The priest was high on a ladder in jeans and a T-shirt, caulking a window in the side wall of the church.
"Oh, hi!" Leah waved back and continued on her way to the staff residence.
"Wait. I'm coming down."
Leah watched him descend the ladder, two rungs at a time. In seconds, he was at her side.
"I need a break." He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a red bandana he had pulled from his back pocket. "Join me for a soft drink?"
Leah followed Father Javier through the back door of the rectory and into the kitchen. It was her first time inside this place, and she felt uneasy. To her, it was an extension of the church sanctuary, and both were unfamiliar territory.
"Regular Coke or Tab?" he called from the pantry.
"Tab, please," she replied. He nodded toward the table by the window and Leah sat, waiting, while Father Javier dropped ice cubes in two glasses and poured. Only the few wealthier families in Santa Teresita could afford refrigeration. Although her own residence had a refrigerator, it surprised Leah that the priests' house would.
As if he had been reading her thoughts, Father Javier remarked, "One of the little luxuries of the priesthood." He sat down across from Leah and slid a frosty glass across the table. "The people say we deserve it, because we have given up so much." It was hard for Leah to tell whether the priest believed it himself, or found the notion as ludicrous as she did. "What do you think?"
Leah looked into Father Javier's Anglo-Latin eyes. "It's your life. How you feel about it?" The priest turned away to stare out the window. However, in that fleeting instant, during which the window of his soul had been open, Leah had discovered a shocking truth. Her shock melted into sadness. Apart from the obvious appeal of Jay's dark good looks and shy charm, she found in him a kindred spirit that transcended differences of upbringing, religion, and culture. For all his devotion to his people and dedication to his ministry, Leah recognized in this man the villagers called "Father" a displaced person, like herself.
The revealed truth had nothing to do with refrigerators. It wasn't about priestly privilege. And, Father Javier himself seemed unaware that his secret was no longer locked inside the vault of his inner self. This good and honorable man, this spiritual leader of his people, this thoughtful pacifist and preacher of nonviolence was, like her, a waif. They were wandering the earth in search of a permanent home -- a place where they belonged. It was this recognition more than anything else that drew Leah into the mystery that was Javier de Cordova. He was still looking out the window, when she reached across the table and laid her hand on his bare forearm. "I know," she whispered.
A faint, sad smile bridged the chasm separating them. Without looking at Leah, Father Javier got up and returned to his work outside. She was left to puzzle over what the discovery meant for her. Would it bring prize or punishment? -- Excerpted from A Love Forbidden by Alfred J. Garrotto. Copyright (c) 1995 by Alfred J. Garrotto. Reprinted by permission of Commonwealth Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
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